


Conjugally Matrimonified

by spinninginfinityboy



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Season/Series 01, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25961959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinninginfinityboy/pseuds/spinninginfinityboy
Summary: "Who the fuck would marry you," laughs Dufresne, spittle flecking his chin. "They'd have to be mad."At that moment,finally, the door to the cabin bursts open and Silver stops, mid-stride, taking in the scene before him with wide eyes. His mouth hangs open, lips parted and frozen in the instant before speech. Flint looks up at him and grins."Him," he says. "I'm marrying him."
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 28
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken once again from Gilbert & Sullivan's "The Pirates of Penzance". This fic was inspired by my partner convincing me to watch rom-coms and me discovering I actually really like them - this one specifically is primarily based on The Proposal, with Sandra Bullock, except instead of Sandra Bullock there are pirates.
> 
> Writing dramatic and poetic angst, though delightful, can get tiring if it's all you do. This is the fun fic. Rated M primarily for language, though there might be some further justification for the rating later on.

There’s a gun pressed to his head. This isn’t entirely surprising, but it does rankle Flint, knowing that one of his own men has his hand upon the trigger. Also, they've got him held in a really quite uncomfortable position, and his knee is starting to hurt.

And to think everything had been going so well.

Silver had been busy that morning; Flint had seen to it, ensured he rose early enough to do his share of work like every other crew member. At least the man had finally stopped complaining. So the decks are swept, the hammocks turned in what passes for an airing of the sheets below decks, and the watch rota running smoothly. Flint is fairly sure that Silver has even managed to stop Randall spitting in the stew at random, which almost counts as a miracle and more than proves his ability to talk people to any position he chooses. If he sticks to schedule, he should be bursting in with some half-witted chatter and a complete disregard for decorum any time now.

Flint looks again at the man on the other end of the pistol, and hopes it's sooner rather than later.

Dufresne sneers, triumphant. A little premature to be celebrating, but Flint can understand the impulse. He's not exactly inclined to cut him short. Once you've seen someone rip a man's throat out with his teeth, you tend to prefer he laughs at you than snarls.

"Give me one good reason not to shoot you right here."

"That's easy. It's a terrible way to make an impression."

Flint can't help but smirk at the look of confusion in Dufresne's eyes. Even Billy, standing uncomfortably behind him, looks a little lost.

"Alright, let's say you're captain. Well done. But outside of this ship, who the fuck knows your name?"

The gun barrel digs in harder. Billy tenses, sensing how close Dufresne must be to snapping.

"Captain Flint, now, that's a name that does a lot of lifting. If you want to make your name known you'll need more than a bullet to show you've bested him. You'll need a spectacle."

Christ, he sounds like Silver. The bastard is getting in his head.

"Kill you slow, then," Dufresne says.

"Well, there comes another point," insists Flint, his heart beginning to thump. Where the fuck is Silver? He's useless in a fight, but Flint's used up his quota of persuasion for the day, and at the very least he can provide one hell of a distraction. "It would be incredibly bad form for you to kill me at all."

"Oh, fuck you," sneers Dufresne, his finger tightening on the trigger, but Billy - thank god, sweet Billy, who understands the whims of the crew better than anyone - puts a hand on his arm to hold him back.

"Why?"

Flint's mind is blank. He hopes it comes across as calculated indifference.

Billy steps forward, towering over Flint even more than usual given the way he's kneeling.

"Why on earth could killing you make us look anything but powerful?"

Any idea. Anything at all.

"Killing a captain is one thing. Killing a crewmate is quite another. And killing a man soon engaged to be married… now, that won't earn the crew's trust."

Anything but that.

"Married?"

That's a terrible fucking idea. 

It's out there now, though. Flint grits his teeth and doubles down.

"Technically, beneath the bonds of matelotage, which will undermine the crew's faith all the further. That's pirate law. They may not care for English law, but I'm certain - and Billy can confirm - that the men won't take kindly to see their own betrayed in such a way."

"Who the fuck would marry you," laughs Dufresne, spittle flecking his chin. "They'd have to be mad."

At that moment, _finally_ , the door to the cabin bursts open and Silver stops, mid-stride, taking in the scene before him with wide eyes. His mouth hangs open, lips parted and frozen in the instant before speech. Flint looks up at him and grins.

"Him," he says. "I'm marrying him."

Both Billy and Dufresne whirl upon Silver, Billy half-drawing his sword, though to Flint's chagrin the pistol at his temple barely shakes.

"Is it true? You- you're marrying the captain."

"He's not the fucking captain," Dufresne snarls.

Silver, to his credit, only frowns for an instant, immediately replacing it with a brilliant, if baffled, smile. Sparkling blue eyes rake over Flint's kneeling form. This is going to take far too fucking much explaining.

"Why, James, I thought we agreed to keep it a secret."

His grin never once falters. Flint tries to smile.

"Circumstances have changed."

Something inside Flint is unfurling, warm and unsteady, at the sound of Silver using his first name. He reckons it's most likely rage. Still, it's his best shot at survival.

Dufresne seems entirely unconvinced, but Billy is wavering. He, at least, knows that Flint is telling one grain of truth; the crew will not be kind to a captain who doesn't respect their laws.

"Dufresne," he says, wincing as the barrel twists. "You've taken the captaincy. Don't throw it away."

A laugh tears from Dufresne's throat, high and almost manic. In a strange way it almost inspires confidence. Flint can overthrow him if he must.

"Alright," he sneers, "alright. Billy, cuff him. Let's leave them both in the hold for now. After all," and there's a laugh, Dufresne leering at Silver, "they're nothing more than a couple of rats."

"Hey, that's not- ow!"

Silver winces, jerking back from Billy and crying out as the bosun slams him into a wall, binding his wrists tight.

"You know, Billy, I'm glad I never made that move on you, if this is how you treat a man," jokes Silver, his head twisted sideways where it's pressed to the boards. Flint has to bite his tongue to suppress a laugh at the bewildered, indignant look Billy gives him.

"Get them out of here," orders Dufresne. "I want them both out of my sight."

It's subtle, but Flint notes the slightest hesitation before Billy nods.

"Sir."

With Silver held helpless in one hand, Billy reaches down and hauls upon the rope binding Flint's wrists. His legs protest as he climbs to his feet, his joints creaking. The drawbacks of living past forty, he reflects, bitterly. Nonetheless, he quite fancies holding on a little longer still.

Bless Billy's heart, or at least his common sense, he takes Silver and Flint to the hold by the most direct and discreet route possible. Even unties them long enough to comfortably position themselves before cuffing them both again.

"Try anything," he says, his broad shoulders and impossible height completely filling the door, "and I will not prevent him from killing you both."

"You won't be able to?"

Billy glares at Silver.

"I won't prevent it."

The door swings shut, leaving them both in shuttered darkness. Flint leans back against a sack of flour and closes his eyes. For a few, blessed moments, the shadows wash away the day like waves.

Of course it can't last.

"So," says Silver conversationally. "What the fuck was all that about?"

*

"Just go over it one more time."

Perched atop a rum barrel, Silver crosses his legs at the ankles and looks down at Flint with eyebrow raised. His expression flickers between amusement and horror seemingly at random as the situation sinks in.

"There was a mutiny," he begins. "In which Dufresne claimed captaincy. A mutiny which you assured me you had under control, by the way."

"I did. Until I didn't. There are a lot of men on this ship, you have no idea how hard it is to keep them all in the right mind."

Silver pouts when he's irritated. In fairness, irritation is about the best Flint can hope for under the circumstances. It's better than seeing him furious. Flint shoots him a glare.

"What is the point of you?"

The pout deepens, amusement dancing behind Silver's eyes.

"Now, that's no way to speak to your husband."

God, this is unbearable. Maybe keelhauling would have been the better option after all.

"Besides, I was aware of the mutiny," Silver says. "Billy made that perfectly clear when he chained me up and let Dufresne threaten to spread your brains on the wall."

"Thank you for prioritising your delicate wrists."

"Fuck you. What I want to know - just, one more time - is why the fuck the crew are now under the impression that we're… married."

He says the word like it's some insect, bizarre and disgusting, best kept at arm's length. Flint runs a hand across his face.

"Can we open that barrel you're sitting on?"

"Empty," replies Silver, drumming his heels against it for good measure. The hollow ringing of it bounces around Flint's skull.

"Course it fucking is. We're married - or, rather, engaged - because if we weren't, I'd be dead. Killing me now would be a disastrous move on Dufresne's part, not only for the disrespect it would show but for the hell you would surely raise. He could kill us both but, for reasons I fear I may never understand, the men like you. It would sow too much distrust too soon in the game."

"So we must show ourselves to be married, on pain of death."

"Until I can reclaim my captaincy, yes."

"And myself the position of quartermaster."

"What?"

"When you are captain once more, you and your allies will support me for quartermaster. If I'm to warm your bed I may at least expect some perks, and I'm sick of dealing with Randall."

Silver's expression has turned calculating.

"We'll need some explanations for the crew. Why we've been sleeping apart, for one thing."

"Just say it was a secret. You can't fit two in a hammock. Besides, you're always in my cabin at odd hours."

"Hm. Bending you over your desk…"

Silver's eyes glaze over, staring into the middle distance at an image Flint doesn't want to see. He groans.

"Shut up."

"I see you aren't denying that I'd be the one fucking you," notes Silver. "Are you happy with that?"

"It's not worth the denial. Why the fuck would it matter?"

"Because, dear husband, the crew are crude and vulgar men and they will ask."

"Tell them to come to their own conclusions."

Silver shrugs.

"Fair enough. When's the wedding?"

"What?"

"They will want to see us follow through, and there's no guarantee that reclaiming your captaincy will be a swift process." The corner of Silver's bottom lip is pink and swollen from the way he worries at it while thinking. Flint stares at it and wishes he would stop. "How about in Nassau?"

"What?"

"Nassau. Yes - that should work. It's our home, near enough, after all. We were waiting for a big prize, something to give everyone cause to celebrate, and enough to throw the party our men - our family - deserved to see of us. After all, the only thing we love more than one another is our ship."

This is not going at all how Flint expected. Lost for anything else to say or do, he settles for an accusatory scowl.

"You're enjoying this."

"Believe me, I am not. I'm just rather fond of my continued existence."

Silver slips off of the barrel and sits down beside Flint, shockingly close. The heat of his body permeates the chill of the hold, and Flint has to fight the irrational impulse to lean closer, claim the warmth as the one small comfort afforded him. When Silver continues, the vibration of his voice stirs the hairs on Flint's skin. There's no accusation in it; nothing but conversation and good humour. It's almost unsettling.

"I don't know a fucking thing about you."

"It's mutual," Flint replies. It's true; Flint really knows very little about Silver, save from the fact he's a conniving bastard who will no doubt hold this incident over Flint's head for months.

Silver laughs, wriggling into a more comfortable position. He brings his knees up close to his chest and hums thoughtfully.

"Alright. I went to St John's home for orphans, joined a merchant ship as soon as I was able, and there I stayed until you found me. Not much in the way of history."

"Hm. And everyone knows the history of Captain Flint."

A lie for a lie leaves the whole world true, one way or another. For a long moment there is silence.

"My favourite food is spiced fried chicken," Silver says at last. "I used to love the colour blue, but the sea took it from me."

"What?"

"The sort of thing a husband should know."

"I'm not going to cook for you."

"Oh, but you're so good at it."

Silver turns to him and grins. Against all likelihood, Flint finds himself returning the smile, faint but undeniably present.

"You really are enjoying this, you shit."

"Perhaps a little. Long days at sea can get so monotonous." Silver chuckles softly. "You really couldn't have thought of a better plan?"

"You're the talker."

"I can see why you need me."

It's too much. The walls of the hold feel like they're closing in, a lie forming that's going to have far too many consequences and yet there's already no turning back. With nothing else to do, Flint lashes out, pulling up annoyance like a veil.

"I don't need you. I don't need anyone."

Far from the threat he had meant to imply, Silver laughs. He doesn't move even an inch away.

"Well then you'll just have to file for divorce."

"Fuck you."

"Sorry," murmurs Silver, his eyes absolutely not flickering to Flint's lips and back up. It's a trick of the low light, exaggerated by the wink and smirk which accompany it. "I'm saving myself until marriage."

Flint elbows him hard in the ribs.

*

The good news is Dufresne seems, if not to believe them, at least inclined to offer Flint the benefit of the doubt. His life is safe, at least until they make port in Nassau. The crew know now too. More than a handful of coins changed hands at the announcement, something which Flint stubbornly refuses to dwell upon, and much of the congratulations seemed genuinely sincere. It's going surprisingly well. If it wasn't for the bad news Flint might be pleased.

The bad news, however, is currently the more pressing matter.

They've been given a space in one of the smaller hold rooms, crates packed and tied away to create space for a pallet bed. Just one pallet bed. Strewn with necklaces and bottles, among other things. Most prominent among those other things is Silver.

"You're in my bed."

"I think you'll find it's our bed, Captain," Silver grins. "Wait, should I be calling you James now? You are my lover, after all."

"You should not."

"Whatever you say, James."

Flint groans.

"Move over."

Obligingly, Silver shuffles over, creating enough space for Flint to take a seat. He gives the blankets an inviting pat. Rolling his eyes, Flint sits, grabbing a pillow to prop up at his back. Necklaces clatter and roll as the cushioning dips. He snags one at random - a deep pink shell threaded into a leather cord - and examines it.

"What is all this shit, anyway?"

"That, I believe, is a lucky charm."

"Why?"

"The crew seem to think you're going to break me," he laughs, softly. "Although, as we have already established, it's not that way around. Maybe you should wear it, see I don't break you."

"I suppose I don't need to ask what these are for, then," Flint says, prodding at a couple of small bottles of oil. "Just please tell me they're new."

"As far as I know. This, here, is from Muldoon - you know, I think he's genuinely pleased for me? Lovely man. If he wasn't spoken for, I might have tried my luck."

"You're forgetting that you're spoken for."

Jesus, where did that come from? Flint had spoken without thinking but as he hears his own words he's struck by the possessive note to his voice. Silver stares at him.

"Jesus, where did that come from?" He shifts, leaning a little more comfortably on the pillows. "I must say, Captain, if you're trying to seduce me this is a terrible way to go about it."

"Got you in my bed, didn't it?" Flint prods absently at another necklace. "As well as all this shit."

"Oh, those ones are special," says Silver with a grin. It is not a grin which bodes well.

"Special how?"

"Those are fertility charms."

Silver waggles his eyebrows. Too little too late, Flint realises that more than one of the charms seems to come in the shape of, for lack of any other description, a massive erect cock. He gives them a puzzled frown.

"Do the men know how sodomy works?"

"They aren't cunt charms, are they? Just take their best wishes and be grateful that they've given them."

That's a good point. Flint thinks back upon the attitudes of the men when they had made their announcement, backed by a furious and flustered Billy to ensure they didn't try and make any escape. The grins and groans and gold exchanging hands.

"Were the men gambling upon our relationship?"

"No more than I was."

Flint glares, and Silver raises his hands in mock surrender.

"Come now, Captain. It wasn't too long ago that you wanted me dead."

"Don't think I've stopped."

"Ouch." Silver shakes his head. "Some of the men couldn't fathom why you'd keep me around if not for your pleasure one way or another. The rest of them were betting on one of us killing the other and seemed to take the wedding as making it void."

Groaning, Flint begins to sweep the charms and bottles to one side, tossing them in a haphazard pile. Silver yelps and ducks as one wooden cock narrowly misses his ear. When he's cleared most of the blanket Flint strips off his jacket, wrapping it into a bundle and putting it under the pillow to offer a little more support.

"Are they always like this, the crew?"

"I don't understand."

Flint sighs, grasping and failing to catch hold of the right words. The truth is he's never seen the crew like this - not up close, at least. Boisterous and good natured, or something like it. Ready to tease and laugh and squabble. Most every time he's seen them, they regard him only from a distance born of contempt, distrust, or fear.

"You lie to them so easily," he says instead. "They treat you as a friend, and yet it is only because you have somehow convinced them to. How do you do it?"

"The phrase 'silver-tongued' had to originate somewhere."

"Oh, dear god," says Flint with a groan, wishing for another cock to throw. "I should have let Dufresne shoot me when I had the chance."

"You love me, remember?"

"Don't push it." He rolls over. "If I kill you now, do I still get your share?"

"You'd need to throw yourself on whatever mercy Dufresne is willing to offer."

"That's a no, then."

"Unfortunately."

Silver sighs, and Flint hears some clinking and rustling, presumably the rest of the mattress being cleared. God, they're going to have to share a fucking bed. It hadn't really registered until now, but so close to facing the fact of it, it's all Flint can think about. He can’t breathe.

"I'll be back in a minute," he manages, climbing to his feet. In the few strides it takes him to reach the door, he doesn't look back. Truthfully he has no idea where he's going, but his feet take him a familiar path off their own accord, leading him to the captain's cabin. Billy, sat outside, draws his pistol immediately at Flint's approach, but Flint simply raises his hands in supplication.

"Relax," he says. "I just wanted to ask for one of my books. I'm sure Mr Dufresne has other things than literature on his mind."

"Captain Dufresne," replies Billy. "Stay here."

Flint inclines his head and bites his tongue. Now is not the time. Billy vanishes briefly into the cabin and reappears with three novels clutched in one hand. He thrusts them upon Flint almost hard enough to make him stumble.

"There you go," he says. "Now get back below before he orders me to have your head, marriage or not."

Flint curls his lip and turns away, books tucked under his arm.

By the time he returns to the room he and Silver have been quartered in, Silver is asleep. This isn't the first thing Flint notices, or at least, not exactly. The first thing he notices is the remarkable expanse of skin on display.

Of fucking course Silver sleeps naked. This day couldn't go any other way.

At least he's made the concession of wrapping a sheet about his waist, and leaving the blanket for Flint. It doesn't hide much. Flint's mouth feels dry as he gazes at Silver's bronzed and tanned form, from his neck down to the soft fuzz of curls, starting light upon his chest and growing thicker and darker until they disappear, just barely hidden by the folds of the sheet.

The other reason that this was a terrible fucking idea slips past his defences in the flickering lamplight. Silver, relaxed and open in sleep, is infuriatingly beautiful. His chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, eyelids fluttering just slightly.

This is going to be torture.

The bed suddenly seems far too small. Flint snatches up his pillow and jacket, making his way to some of the crates by the door. It's no captain's chair, but it'll do. He pulls his jacket snug about his shoulders and stares at his book until the lamp flickers and burns out, and doesn't take in a single word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild CW on this chapter for use of shaving and razors - no injury from them but some offhand comments about their use as weapons - and also for descriptions of injury. Not too graphic, but worth being aware of in advance. Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading so far, enjoy ch2!

Shore leave is a rare treat for the crew, but never so for the captain. Flint hardly remembers the last time he went ashore with the intent of relaxing. As a result, for most of the day he's been stubbornly avoiding it, busying himself instead with making camp, hauling boxes and barrels of food and drink and powder to the ship. The moment he relaxes the men will expect him to once again be inseparable from Silver. 

He doesn't even want to think about the fact they're sharing a cabin, even if Silver has so far proved a remarkably tolerable bedmate; his constant needling had died down after a day or so, giving way to fairly quiet evenings together. By mutual silent agreement they've been taking turns with the bed, one sleeping on the pallet while the other reads and dozes quietly in the pillow-covered crates they've designated as chairs. Silver had borrowed the large, green-bound book containing the collected works of Shakespeare, and seemed genuinely taken by _Twelfth Night_. That morning Flint saw him carrying it ashore, and had to hide a smile. It doesn't mean he's looking forward to their sharing continuing, though.

Putting it off through work lasts him well, but there is only so much work to be done; by evening, with the sun kissing the sea, he has no excuses remaining and must at last accept his fate. Of course, given his lack of participation in any previous shore leave excursions, Flint has only the faintest idea of what he's to expect that evening. The abstract knowledge of the crew's rowdy celebrations does not in any way translate to what Flint is faced with upon making his way to the beach.

The bonfire is over six feet high and roaring, sending sparks so high he cannot tell where they end and the stars begin. Drink flows more freely and abundantly than he would ever have thought Dufresne to permit; he harbours a sneaking suspicion that this is not quite within the bounds of authorised shore leave activities. Groups of three to five men at a time sit in rough circles and trade copper coins for cards, groaning and cursing one another in good humour with every loss. Over by a particularly tall tree the gun crew are egging one another on to see who can knock fruit down with the most precision and the fewest rocks. Everyone else seems primarily occupied by drinking.

Silver spots him before he has a chance to brace for it - the first Flint knows of his presence is a hot weight about his waist, Silver curling in close to his side and leaning up to murmur in his ear.

“Laugh,” he whispers, “like you find me funny, if you can manage it. The men are gossiping. We want to keep it that way.”

Laughing is a little beyond him, but Flint huffs out a chuckle with some affection in it, and whispers back in a pantomime of brushing his lips to Silver’s temple.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

“The men are throwing us a party, in celebration of our engagement.”

Silver pulls back, grinning just too wide to be convincing.

“Drink, games, a fire, and I am assured there will be a surprise.”

“I’m leaving,” says Flint at once.

With a pointed glance, Silver grabs his arm, a momentary tight grip before he shifts and runs his fingers gently down the tanned and freckled skin to tangle with Flint’s. He tries not to let his breath falter at the casual, bold affection.

“It’s your fucking lie. Sell it,” growls Silver, before breaking instantly into another beaming smile. “Stay, James. For me.”

The way he asks is so genuine Flint almost believes him. He swallows hard against the impulse to step closer, to let Silver take his hand and lead him, and instead disentangles himself to place a hand at the small of Silver’s back. From this angle he could almost use the weight of it, just the slightest pressure, to draw SIlver in for a kiss. He doesn’t. Instead he steers Silver carefully towards a large log by the bonfire, breathing deep and reminding himself that he has not quite yet lost all control.

The night takes off rather swiftly once the men notice his presence. Drinks are pressed into his hand from all sides; Flint downs the first two without pause or hesitation, the fire of the spirits burning his throat and warming his stomach, a much-needed defence against the conflict raging within him. For a time it's almost enjoyable, drinking and listening to the crew share stories absurd and crude by turns. Silver has somehow insinuated himself under Flint's arm and is leaning against the front of his shoulder, his hair swaying gently with Flint's every breath. Once, though the awareness of it is shrouded and foggy with rum, Flint thinks he may press his mouth there, the faintest brush of lips against velvet curls.

The darkness falls swiftly, and inhibitions fall with it. From somewhere the crew have produced a battered fiddle, a bucket serving as a drum to keep time. Flint counts himself grateful for the restraint he had learnt in England; no shame, not any more, but the ability to keep his feelings hidden can still serve him well. It is all he has to keep him from doing something unforgivable when Muldoon leads a crowd in hauling Silver upright, twirling him to the beat. They tease him and toss him back and forth, tugging at his shirt, until Silver laughs and relents. His eyes lock with Flint’s. There is not an ounce of shame or contrition in his gaze. Flint feels a shiver run through him.

In time with the drum - or, as near to perfect time as he can get, with the alcohol and the staggered rhythm of the men clapping along - Silver opens his shirt, tossing his hair back and running a hand down his chest. Flint takes a drink and feels it turn to sand in his dry mouth. Not looking away from Flint, Silver smirks and drags the bottom of his shirt up, exposing his abdomen, the light sheen of sweat upon the muscles there a sweet accompaniment to the gentle curve of his belly. The blood rushing loud in Flint’s ears runs hot and cold in his veins. He’s seen Silver without a shirt before, but this feels new - deliberate in a way that no other occasion was. God help him, but he’s far from unaffected.

Flint doesn’t realise he’s standing up until Silver pulls his shirt away fully and stands almost chest to chest with him. They’re so close that Flint can feel the heat of his skin above anything from the bonfire. For an instant he has the mad, terrible impulse to kiss him. 

“Like what you see, James?” murmurs Silver, tongue darting out, pink and wet, to moisten his lips.

“I’m going to bed.”

A chorus of amused derision.

“Oh, Silver, seems your husband gets tired out fast!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” replies Silver, still far too close. “He’s saving his energy for when I join him there.”

Before Flint can make his escape, Silver grabs his shirt and kisses him. It’s over in an instant, and this time there is an apology in Silver’s expression. It’s nothing but part of the lie.

None of this is anything but a lie.

Nausea spins through Flint’s mind as he stumbles back to their cabin. The men seem so happy, and for what? For a lie? No - no, he thinks, that’s not quite it. They’re happy for Silver. The man is a liar and a thief and yet he is loved, and Flint? Well, Flint is the worst thief of all, for he wants to steal that love for himself.

The image of Silver stripping for him comes so vividly to mind that Flint staggers, clutching at the wooden door frame for support. The honesty in his expression, just for a moment - alcohol, surely, nothing more. Perhaps even glee at the power he holds over Flint, if he wants to be pessimistic about it.

He undresses with his eyes shut so as not to bear witness to the weakness Silver has brought out in him. The cotton sheets are blessedly cool against his flushed skin. Flint shuts his eyes and grits his teeth against the images of Silver running in a ring around his mind, halfway undressed and setting his hands upon the waist of his trousers as though ready to complete the job. He wants to raise a hand to his own lips, trace the touch that Silver had left him. He doesn't want to think about it at all. As he drifts away into dreams it becomes harder for him not to dwell on it, but no matter what his mind conjures for him, when he sleeps it is with fists balled tight by his sides.

*

The heat of the day becomes unbearable almost before dawn. The narrow windows of the cabin send a sunbeam angling directly into Flint's eyes. He swears under his breath.

The sheets are damp - Flint doesn’t even want to think about what with, but hopes it’s sweat - and wrapped tight as manacles about his thrashing limbs. It takes him a good few minutes to completely untangle himself and roll out of bed. Silver sleeps through it all, curled up in the chair in the corner, draped in his own jacket in lieu of a proper covering. Guilt twinges in Flint’s stomach as he looks at him. No matter how much he may resent the previous night’s events, Silver was right - there was no way for them both to excuse themselves without arousing suspicion. The lie had to be sold. He had slunk off like the coward he is, and Silver had paid the drunken price.

“Shit,” he mutters.

Before his better judgement has a chance to kick in, Flint crosses the room and scoops Silver up. He’s surprisingly heavy - there’s more muscle on them than there first appears, it seems. He’s dressed only in his underclothes and curls into Flint’s arms instinctively, without so much as a flicker of waking. Flint feels the heat of his skin and realises he’s not wearing a shirt either. Perhaps it is this, more than anything, which prompts Flint to hurry back across the room, depositing Silver carefully in the bed and covering him with a sheet. He pauses, just long enough to pull on a shirt and tie up his hair, but makes the fatal, Orphean mistake of looking back.

His chest aches at the sight. Silver rolls over, grabbing at the pillow Flint had slept upon and pulling it close to his chest, burying his face in the fabric with a long, slow sigh.

“Shit,” he says again, and makes for the door.

It doesn’t take too long to find a fishing spear; on an island such as this, where seafood is a major source of both diet and trade, they come in abundance. Flint borrows one from a friendly young man, too busy repairing torn nets to have any need of it today, and makes his way to the shore.

The sand is cool and wet beneath his feet, becoming firmer at first as he nears the water’s edge and then at once liquid, soft and malleable beneath the waves. It’s the only gentle touch he can bear.

Flint follows the shoreline, wading up to his ankles through the shallows and scanning his horizon until at last he passes behind a rocky outcrop, small enough to be easily passed but large enough to shield him from view from on land, and which creates a natural harbour of the sort where fish often gather. Perfect. With the morning sun rising at his back, and the cold water lapping at his feet, Flint quickly strips off his clothes and lays them on a high rock, somewhere the waves won’t reach. He grins. It’s been too long since he’s had a chance to do this. Flint takes a deep breath, spear in hand, and dives.

The water is a blessing against his burnt and sweat-damp skin. It startles every nerve awake, flushing him with keen awareness and focus. He blinks against the salt sting and stares past the bubbles of his own breath at shoals of tiny fish darting past, and the shadows of larger ones a little further ahead. With practiced eye he scans the ocean floor and spots a patch of smooth sand just before a sharp drop. That’ll do nicely.

When he surfaces the water comes not quite to his waist, and in the depths ahead he can see the swift movements of fish. With a little luck, he’ll pull together a fine dinner for the men. It’s a good way to regain some favour, for one thing - he’s heard said that a man’s heart is best found through his stomach - but even besides that, it’s a remarkably effective way to clear his head. Out in the sea there are no concerns of relationships, whether marriage or mutiny; only him, and the waves, and his prey.

Time flows past with the ocean.

By the time the sun is riding high and red, Flint has four fish hooked, and is hoping for a fifth before he goes back. There’s one particularly large one which seems to be getting bolder, swimming ever so slowly further within his striking range. All Flint’s focus has narrowed to the weight of the spear and the shadow of its target. This is his downfall.

Flint breathes water and splutters furiously, thrashing against whatever the fuck it is which has knocked his legs from under him. No - whoever. Even as his instincts take over and his body becomes occupied entirely with grappling at his assailant, there's a part of his mind which is groaning. This fucking bastard.

Arms tight around his knees turn to clutching hands, then feet tangling together as Flint gains the upper hand. For a moment they surface, Flint gasping for breath, and then they're once more tumbling into the waves, their bodies flush together and tumbling, sending spray to capture rainbows from the sun.

And they're both fucking naked.

It's this realisation which drives Flint to rear away, shoving his opponent underwater and stumbling to his feet.

"You shit," he spits, salt water pouring from his lips.

Silver rises from the water like a goddamn nymph, droplets cascading from his hair and running down his chest towards - Flint’s eyes widen - his very naked cock, hanging soft and dripping in the glittering ocean light. He grins at Flint as though he hasn’t a care in the world.

“Hello, captain,” he says cheerfully. “Fancy seeing you here.”

God, Silver wears his nakedness well. He stands contrapposto, completely unconcerned, almost as though he’s allowing - inviting - Flint’s gaze. The muscles of his arms and abdomen stand out a little from the exercise of his swim and the effort of their fight. His eyes are a perfect reflection of the sky.

Flint feels at once rather exposed. He digs a thumbnail into the meat of his palm, forcing himself not to cover up, duck into the water where he is hidden. Silver is looking at him with the open, honest gaze of the true liar. It terrifies Flint to think what he’s hiding underneath.

“You’re scaring the fish,” he says.

With an almost imperceptible smile Silver moves his gaze slowly from Flint's face to the water, taking in all that lies between.

When he blushes, Flint knows, it spreads in red blotches down his neck and chest. It’s the first time he can remember ever being grateful for sunburn. His eyes fall again, unbidden, on Silver’s nakedness, and he decides he’s also grateful for the cold water keeping his reaction in check. 

"You don't seem to be having any trouble."

"That was before you turned up."

Silver laughs, kneeling down until only his head and shoulders are visible. It should be some kind of relief; instead Flint finds himself unable to think about anything but Silver on his knees before him.

“How lucky I am, to find a man who brings home dinner. I’ll have the men start a fire.”

Pushing off, he disappears beneath the waves and swims away as smoothly as if he was never there at all.

Flint takes a handful of water and splashes it on his face, willing himself to calm down and focus. The spear weighs heavy in his grip. One more fish, and then he can return to shore and face Silver again, in full knowledge of how he looks undressed. In full knowledge of how his naked flesh feels when pressed to Flint, the weight of his body in loose and reckless abandon.

He glares into the water, and hopes that the big fish grows more cowardly.

*

Dufresne may have bested Flint in name, but in practice, he's taking a certain satisfaction in the knowledge that the bastard has done less damage than a particularly sneaky jellyfish. A pistol-shaped bruise to the forehead is nothing compared to the pain lancing through his right arm.

There's a ragged group of men sitting around a fire on the beach, passing a bottle between themselves and laughing. Silver sits among them, leaning in towards Joji and gesturing in the way Flint recognises as accompanying a particularly implausible story. His eyes widen when he spots Flint.

"James!"

He beams, hopping to his feet and walking over. The image of how he looks naked is imprinted upon Flint's mind, an overlay upon the man before him, taunting him.

"How was your fishing trip?" asks Silver, reaching out as though to lay a hand upon him, even embrace him. Flint rears back, dizzy, shielding his injured arm and glaring.

Words fail him as another dart of agony comes over him. Snarling, Flint tosses the bundle of fish to the ground by the fire. The blunt edge of the spear catches Silver's ribs hard.

"Lunch," he grunts. Sand flies as he turns on his heel and stalks off towards the cabin.

"What the hell, James?" yells Silver. Joji raises an eyebrow.

"Trouble in paradise," he murmurs. "Don't let the captain see."

Flint only tenses and quickens his pace.

His eyes are clouded with bitter, pained tears by the time he makes it to the cabin. Though he had pulled his shirt back on with gritted teeth before leaving the bay, unable to face encountering Silver with the memory of their shared nakedness so fresh, he finds he now can hardly wait to tear it off. The threads of agony wrapped like wire around his arm feel as though they're tightening.

When he eases the shirt away, the pain lessens a little, but then he moves and it flares so sharply he is almost sick. Flint screws his eyes shut tight and forces himself to breathe.

The door to the cabin slams open with a sound like a pistol shot, and Silver storms in.

“What the fuck was that?” he asks, accusatory and furious. One glance at his face shows him to be red with anger. “Jesus Christ, Flint, you can’t keep acting like this. They’re supposed to believe we’re in love, remember?”

He runs a hand through his hair and Flint winces, in part from the pain, but more so from the way the movement reminds him of their shared laughter at the bonfire, the way Silver had looked at him as though they wanted the same thing.

“Tell me, do you even care about the men believing this? Or is this all some kind of elaborate power play, an exercise in testing just what I will do for you? Fuck you,” he spits, “Fuck you, James.”

The use of his first name hits him like a whip.

“Get the fuck out.”

“What?”

“I said, get-”

The words are cut off in a cry of agony. In gesturing towards the door he had made the mistake of using his injured right arm and the movement makes the wounds sting more than ever. Silver’s expression shifts from rage to concern in an instant.

“Fuck, what did you do?”

"None of your concern."

"James."

He sighs.

“Jellyfish.”

Silver walks closer and grimaces. It is this reaction more than the pain which prompts Flint to examine the wound fully for the first time. It is far from a pretty sight.

There are livid red welts criss-crossing his forearm, standing stark and sore against his pale skin. They range in size from smallish raised bumps up to lines of swollen flesh as thick as the ropes on the ship, and all of them scream agony at him at the slightest movement. He doesn’t know shit about jellyfish, but this one is a particular bastard.

“Stay there,” says Silver. “I’ll be back.”

“Not sure where you think I’d go,” retorts Flint, but any bite it might have held is swallowed in the pained tremor of his voice.

Silver bites his lip in hesitation, then squeezes Flint’s shoulder softly, allowing the contact to apologise for him.

“I’ll be back,” he repeats.

True to his word Silver returns within minutes, bearing a bucket of seawater, a razor blade, and a bundle of cloth.

“Planning to cut my throat?”

“I’m still considering it,” says Silver with something that almost manages to be a smile. “Stay still, now. I need to make sure there’s nothing still on the skin.”

Flint can’t think of a response. He’s dizzy with the pain of the sting and besides, all of his attention is on the way Silver’s tongue peeks out between his lips when he concentrates. The touch of the razor against his skin is so light he hardly feels it, and Silver is gentle, clearing any lingering stings from his skin without so much as scratching the flesh.

“Alright?”

His eyes are light with the question as they roam Flint’s face. He nods. There are no words for a reply.

“Good,” he says, and Silver smiles.

“Good,” repeats Silver. “We’re going to wash it now - that’s what the seawater is for. Don’t worry, I didn’t catch any more of the fuckers.”

“I can take care of myself,” Flint protests.

“I know.”

The salt water stings at first, sets curses tumbling from Flint’s lips, but it soothes as much as it hurts. When the first pass is done Silver switches to a second cloth and repeats the process, taking extreme care over the largest of the injuries. Once they are both satisfied, Silver reaches for the bandages. An instant of fear rises in Flint’s throat at the thought of letting someone else wrap them - it is rather too much like being tied up - but Silver’s face is still open and almost pleading with apology, and Flint breathes it in.

Silver wraps the bandages with care, if a little untidily. His fingers are gentle, and he's quick. Flint doesn't miss the way his touches linger upon the pulse point at Flint’s wrist.

“Shall the wedding be a handfast?” he says, smiling. Flint looks in his eyes, truthful and fathomless blue, and has no answer to give.


End file.
